And then he ordered the cake.

If I am honest, there are lots of things in life that just down right shit me off. To tears. Some are fair enough, like bullying, rudeness, backstabbing and two-facedness (I may have just made that word up). And then, there are things that are trivial and petty that I have somewhat irrational feelings of anger when I'm exposed to them. 

Some examples include the use of the phrase 'nom nom nom' when something tastes good. It makes me skin crawl and I can not help being reminded of a fat man eating with his mouth open and dripping food onto his shirt. Irrational, I know. But it angers me. 

I also hate it when people change lanes when driving and forget to turn their indicators off. They drive kilometers down the road and by the time they realise and rectify the situation, I am almost certifiably insane with rage! And honestly, how ridiculous is that? Of all the things that could anger me. 

And then, there are these members of society.

 

Bike riders. In spandex. 

But people, not the professional bike riders in spandex who take part in registered and worthy events like the Santos Tour Down Under - why would they bother me? I don't see them.

Because I hibernate on those days so that it doesn't' become Homicide Down Under.

No. It's the hobby bike riders on a sunday - wearing spandex. The hobby riders that take up the entire road riding in tandem, chatting, that make me want to mow them down and then laugh loudly like a maniac and scream "Serves you right!".

I mean, why? WHY? Do they wear spandex? Without sponsor advertisements ironed on to the spandex so that we are forced to see the meat and two veg mashed rudely on to the bike seat. Do you know why they don't have sponsors? Because the aren't professionals. They aren't good enough to be. It's a hobby. 

I just threw up in my mouth.

Some even shave their legs. Yet, apparently they aren't losers. Why is this so? And why do they get so angry when your car comes within inches of their bikes even though you are driving on the wrong side of the road, bound for a head on collision with a semi-trailer, all because they are too good and 'professional' to use the bike lane? 

Or move over, god forbid.

Yet I'm the asshole because I tried to stay on the right side of the road?

Honestly, I would just drive in the lane and make them move at the last second, only I'm scared they'll hunt me down (because surely if they are professionals, in spandex, they can ride at 60ks per hour, can't they?), drag me from the car and pummel me to death with their helmets, whilst blinding me with their fluro strips and assault me with their protruding sausage and spuds in the pants region, and then ride off into the distant on their padded bums, while my life drains away. 

Assaulted, by the peloton.

Then, on sunday. The anger became fury, and I'll never be the same again. It involved food.

First mistake.

My sister (who is 32 weeks pregnant) and I went to the eastern burbs to a market, and upon leaving decided to enter a cafe for some coffee and cake. Not too much to ask, I wouldn't have thought.

But people. It was spandex country. Everywhere. Padded bums on seats and two fried eggs and a sausage, tightly packed. Everywhere. And they were in the cafe. I went to order our coffee and drinks, my sister requesting the orange cake - gluten free (which means not much for us but hey, no gluten has to be good for the 'stines sometimes). I stood in line, staring through the glass window into the cake fridge, feeling excited about tasting the magnificent looking orange cake. The large, thickly cut and (dare I say) moist looking cake. Heaven on a plate.

I'll never know.

In front of me were the Spandex's. Two of them, conversing in their tongue. They were ordering for their crew who were sitting on the tables outside, obviously patting each other on the backs for their totally awesome ride that morning. The spandex's were up, they began ordering. 

Five lattes. Two hot chocolates. Seven pieces of orange cake.

Cue inner choking and inner rage. 

SEVEN PEICES OF ORANGE CAKE.

Guess how many slices there were?.

Seven.

In a blind panic and rage, I hailed Sarah over from our table - across the cafe - and informed her through tears of rage that the two 'men' in front of me just ordered the last of the orange cake. She almost cried. She's pregnant, she wanted orange cake. I couldn't deliver.

Cue fist clenching, jaw locking fury. 

One of the pelicans turned around and said, laughing, 'Oh, ha, sorry about that'.

To which I responded (in my head). No worries. No that's fine. You take the road, flash us all your junk, abuse us when we follow road rules, take up all the tables, abandon your families while you live your hobby life, ruin spandex for everyone and eat my cake. Nah you're cool mate. I'll just remember to remind Jesus next time I'm talking to him that someone else has taken over his position as God.

In real life I responded:

'That's ok. You just took cake from a pregnant woman'. And he flinched a bit, because their was hate blood seeping from my eyes. I was, at that point, certifiably insane with rage.

And now because of that group of seven bike riders, I will never recover - and I'll never move over on the road again.

Those little fuckers took my cake. 

That was day one.

So how did I spend the first day of relative freedom?

At the hairdressers of course...as every woman should. I feel refreshed already!

xx

Good timing don't you think?

I think I might be famous. I think Bonds answered my desperate plea for un-dodgy jocks. Maybe there is a Jock God out there???

It's time to reclaim my home!

This is what happens to my house when I am in the middle of writing assignments. This mess? My last assignment for the year. Freedom. Only words away. And guess what?

I finished it today.

Unless you knew the anxiety this assignment has caused me, you wouldn't understand the release I feel. The relief. The excitement that now, I can start doing fun things!

Fun things that start by folding this growing monstrosity in my hallway. Im not kidding, it's taller than Tilly. I thought I might have to start feeding it soon and even give it a name.

See how much I love you that I would reveal this in internet town. Unconditional that is.

I'm not sure where to even start with that. But - it's still easier than my assignment!

I am so looking forward to christmas crafts, after school walks and icecream. Gardening and walking the dog. Planning my beautiful sisters baby shower. It's a theme of lemons. I can't wait to show you!

Did I mention I have four mornings a week with no kids? I'm happy and excited to fill these mornings doing things just for me.

Even if I wish I could fill that time with a baby. Bittersweet.

I hope to share more of me with you too, documenting strange moments and lots of laughter! Christmas, birthdays and all the summery goodness that is just beginning. I love it so much!

xx

We gardened in the garden.

But before we gardened. We partied! Yes, Tilly turned four and we celebrated on a trying to be warm day, with beautiful family and friends. It was just what we needed. Tilly was thoroughly spoiled, as only a four year old girl should! This year, the biggest hit was littlest pet shop. This kid loves small, strange looking creatures. She gets very attached too, and at the moment - there is barely room in the bed for her as all her new toys and animals must sleep in the bed too. She can't leave any out.

She's a good pet owner.

The highlight of the day for Tilly was definitely her trip to the nail salon. Pink nails of course! She absolutely loved it, and at only $5 for her pampering session, I think it might become a bit of a date for Tilly and myself this summer. Of course, Adam will understand that I too have to get my nails and pedicure done too for the bonding time to reach deep within. 

It's for the children.

Once the birthday events came to a halt. Adam and Matilda spend the hours after kindy, playing in the garden. Or making a garden. A quick trip to Bunnings saw them back with seeds to grow vegetables and herbs. And sunflowers, Tilly's choice.

In no time we hope to have our own carrots, capsicum, tomatoes, lettuces, strawberries and sunflowers. I can't wait, just in time to spend our summer nights on the new paving, eating our newly grown food.

Sounds great in theory..lets see if those veggies were listening and bring to the table. Literally.

And after that, yesterday's sun saw the cousins and the kids outside playing that game where you throw beanbags on a target.

Does that have a name?

It was serious business!!!

Lots of frustration was felt, and concentration spent. All in the aim of hitting that target. Darcy won. Which was lucky, otherwise he would probably be sitting in his room. Crying. Even though the game ended 24 hours ago.

So, when this assignment, due in just over two weeks, which is being procrastinated upon as I type, is done and dusted, my first project is to make some beanbags for the 'throw the beanbag at the target game'. We borrowed these ones from the library. If they work, and don't look terrible - they could make quite cute christmas presents for the extended family kids..don't you think?

Enjoy the sun.

To my Matilda. Happy Birthday.

Born on the 16th of October 2006....The story so far.

Music by Feist

&

Yael Naim

Happy 4th Birthday, my beautiful little soul.

xxoo

A story about underwear.

I am still unsure as to whether all men, some men, or only one man - Adam - chooses to wear jocks until they ain't jocks no more. I personally like to wear knickers that look clean when they are clean. That hang to my arse without elastic touching the skin.

Touching the skin..bare skin.

It's not that I worry I'll be in an accident, intestines seeping from my guts, eyes hanging from my skull or limbs severed beyond recognition and I'll suddenly think "OH MY GOD! I have those knickers on today. Just kill me. Stop the defibbing, get your CPR mouth off mine. The humiliation -it's too much".

No. I just like to wear nice underwear. To me? Basic Human Right. Up there with food, alcohol and er..water.

And then there is Adam. His jocks 'still have life' if they have holes, and some elastic exposed at the waist band. I think they are hideous and are passed the 'rag in the shed' stage. But, as a loving wife, I wash, dry and fold said jocks and return them to the jocks drawer instead of flinging them unceremoniously into the nearest bin. So what is the problem I hear you ask? It's not like anyone else has to see them. Right?

Wrong.

Adam is a gas pig and works away from home two weeks of every month. In those two weeks he works 12 hour days, enters the kitchen several times a day for his gourmet buffet..all you can eat heaven...wonders off to his state of the art gym...sleeps in his made bed, fresh sheets and all, and at some stage - he'll go and collect his freshly laundered, dried and folded clothes - from the laundry ladies.

Oh yes people. He sent these Jocks for OTHER PEOPLE to clean. To wash. To wittness. I think he has in mind that they were the souless, unthinking, non-judgemental cleaning fairies who make nothing of seeing jocks in the washing..like this:

LITERALLY hanging. By a thread.

And then one day when Adam was on night shift and so unfortunately had to wash his own clothes 

gasp!

He walked in to collect his washing from the dryer and, yep, there was the cleaning human. A woman. No fairy. AND - she had hold of the jocks. Adam, in his mortification made a grab at the jocks whilst muttering 'it's ok, i'll fold them', while washing lady grabbed them back with a 'No no, it's my job, I'll do it'. The struggle ensued, and Adam won. And made the walk of shame, with the jocks he now had to admit had reached there end, back to his room. And cried.

Ok no he didn't cry. But he put them in his bag to bring home to show me.

Aren't I the luckiest wife in the world?

Now, I'll just say one thing. I have enough issues washing my own dude's jocks that look like this. I ain't touching no other dude's jocks that look like this. Cleaning lady? Legend.

So, you think this blog post is coming to an end? Sorry people, there is one more thing.

Obviously, it was time to invest in some new jocks. So Adam went to Big W and bought ye olde favourites..the Bonds pack of 4 (this time with bonus pair!) 

which are supposed to look like this.

But when opened. They looked like this.

I am still crying with laughter. The jock gods sent him porn jocks. 

And I like walking around like this...just to take the piss.

*Disclaimer* Adam gave permission for me to post about his jocks. I am a bitch. But no one of those bitches.

It's so beautiful. It's so sad.

I just wanted to share this clip. I never knew I could be so moved by a kids movie. But this moves me to tears - and lots and lots of them. It is both beautiful and sad...and life. Isn't it? We all have dreams that don't work out. We all get our hearts broken, over and over again. But it is just one big giant adventure and we never know where it's going to take us next.

Let me know what you think.

You might need tissues.

Up.

Click here.

Off to the farm.

We're off to the farm tomorrow. Where it looks like this. I'll post about it when we get back.

Enjoy the weekend! The sun will be out, and it's the last days before school returns.

Use them wisely.

xx Ps, I'll post my new hair to. It's short. Very short :)

A celebration and some sun.

This week we celebrated my beautiful sisters last birthday in her 20's.

I think I am allowed to tell the internets that. Aren't I?

We celebrated in true sisterly style...a movie, shopping and of course lots of food, both good and bad. The movie we saw was 'Dinner for Shmucks'. Very very funny.

Possibly the weirdest movie I have seen. But funny.

Birthdays are quite fun in our family. First of all there are rules, which are as follows:

1. The birthdayee will do no work, be this house or any other variety; unless that job is of the paid variety and your boss won't allow you the day off.

2. They birthdayer, all those around the birthdayee, will do everything. E-V-E-R-Y-T-H-I-N-G. Except wiping bums (unless belonging to said birthdayee's children) and other personal bodily maintenance that wouldn't be seen outside a hospital.

3. There are no diets on birthdays. None. Calories go on holidays along with the fat they accumulate. Birthdays are the excuse to enjoy any type of food desired, guilt free. Beware non- birthday people, this kind of throwing caution to the wind is contagious on birthdays.

4. Presents. Enough said.

5. Singing happy birthday. Loud. If the neighbours can't hear it. YOU FAIL. If New Zealand can't hear it. YOU FAIL. 

Get my drift?

Exhibit A: Begins with a warm up by Tilly, followed by the real thing.

It is quite likely that we are in fact, all mad.

Given the level of enthusiasm and the extent of the festivities, it's really no wonder that Tilly has been talking about her birthday for weeks. Months even. It's two weeks away now and I can't wait.

This kid wants everything for her birthday. But mainly pets. 

PETS. Eddie is a pet dammit!

And look, she's warming up to it already. All she needs is Darcy to fan her with palm leaves and me to feed her grapes.

It could happen yet. Don't laugh.

I do love birthdays.

How am I still alive? And how do I still have a car?

What's that on my car??

What IS that on my car?????

Oh, just my car keys. And house keys. 

Left at 7.00pm Saturday night.

Found 9.45am Sunday morning.

Turns out it's a good thing Adam doesn't read my blog.